


Iniquity

by Amy_the_Asgardian



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Loki Needs a Hug, Multi, let's try to keep him from burning things down, or murdering everyone, seriously he goes through so much shit, that would be nice - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy_the_Asgardian/pseuds/Amy_the_Asgardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness.</p><p> </p><p>That’s all he knew, besides the tight, vice-like grip of the guard’s hands around his upper arms. He could hear their cruel, cold-hearted laughter, and the muffled screaming of a woman not too far off in the distance. He tried in vain to figure out whom the voice belonged to, but he could barely think straight. In time, he thought he’d figured out whom the shrill, piercing tones belonged to, and it terrified him. He was struggling to breathe– the guards had placed a thick, heavy cloth over his head and had tied it around his neck with rope. He couldn’t understand where he was, or why he was there, until the guard holding his arms abruptly let go, reached up, and ripped the cloth off of his face.</p><p>Sometimes, darkness is better than reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Darkness.

 

That’s all he knew, besides the tight, vice-like grip of the guard’s hands around his upper arms. He could hear their cruel, cold-hearted laughter, and the muffled screaming of a woman not too far off in the distance. He tried in vain to figure out whom the voice belonged to, but he could barely think straight. In time, he thought he’d figured out whom the shrill, piercing tones belonged to, and it terrified him. He was struggling to breathe– the guards had placed a thick, heavy cloth over his head and had tied it around his neck with rope. He couldn’t understand where he was, or why he was there, until the guard holding his arms abruptly let go, reached up, and ripped the cloth off of his face.

He squinted at the sunlight streaming in through the arched windows, and immediately knew where he was. The gleaming, golden halls and gilded, tiled floors of the palace surrounded him.

His home.

 

Or, what he’d once thought to be his home. 

He did not belong here; he belonged in the cold, frozen wastes of southern Scandinavia. He was a monster, a bastard child, stolen away from his true home to serve as future emissary between the Eastern Europeans and the Scandinavians. His only purpose, only use the king had for him, was to bring peace between two different cultures, two different races that despised each other- but how was he, the lowly, inferior prince, ever supposed to bring peace?

Oh, how he wanted peace. He longed for it- for solitude, for the chance to be able to peacefully raise a family, to have a wife and home– he was desperate for it. He had never truly been able to raise his children. His gorgeous daughter, Hela, had been cast away into the cold, damp ruins of an unknown wasteland because her mother abhorred her. His firstborn son, Rowan, was torn from his arms just minutes after birth. He had tried to visit Rowan once; desperate for the chance he might have at seeing his precious son, and was caught– he was lashed repeatedly, over and over and over until he thought he’d never be able to stand again– and had seen his innocent son, his handsome, quiet, innocent son– be punished for his father’s actions.

 

It was not the first time his children had suffered because of him.

His sons, his beautiful, youngest sons; twin boys with shining black curls that were as dark as night and barely old enough to walk were brought before him– each clutching the guard’s hands and taking careful, measured steps towards him– were forced to tear each other apart. Vali, terrified and stumbling after the guards, well aware of his fate– and Narfi, timid and bewildered and clutching his favorite teddy bear– until his brother lunged for him and all that was left was the memory of his agonizing screams for help and his bear, now soaked in blood and lying in what shreds of flesh and bone still remained of his small, innocent friend. 

 

He had not even been allowed to mourn their death; for fear that a servant would notice his mourning clothes and start asking questions.

 

Questions whose answers would tarnish the populace’s flawless, perfect view of the royal family.

 

So he mourned, in silence. In hidden passageways throughout the palace and in tiny, secret gardens hidden by thick vines of ivy and large, climbing rose bushes, he cried. Cried because all he could remember were their faces, twisted in horror and anguish and screaming for help. The voices of babes barely even toddlers, screaming at the top of their lungs for their father, when he could no more help them than watch them be torn apart. 

 

He could have, should have been able to get away from the laughing, jeering guards holding him back, but he couldn’t. He could not make himself move. The sight of his baby boys tearing each other apart– their mangled bodies lying in pools of blood, being kicked and laughed at by uncaring guards– it horrified him. Broke what was left of his heart; shattered it into a million more pieces, never to be put back together again. The only children of his to ever see love; ever know what true love felt like– and they were torn from his arms and murdered like they were no more than maggots.

 

Oh, no, this type of pain was nothing new to him. 

 

He was forced to stand. The guards holding his shoulders turned him around to face the ornate, gilded throne– the one he had wanted all to himself oh so long ago– and his breath caught in his throat.

 

There was his wife, the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes on, standing in front of two of his personal guards. She had been screaming earlier– shrieking, terrified sounds that chilled him to his bones and had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end- but now she was silent. She was wearing the most beautiful gown he had ever seen– it was a deep, emerald green, with golden accents over the bodice that reflected brightly in the sunlight streaming in through the tall, arched windows. Her hair, a mass of Titian curls, shined so brightly in the sun that it looked like flames were dancing across her shoulders.

She was stunning.

 

Her eyes, however, were a different story. 

 

They were her usual hazel; a very light brown with flecks of dark green scattered throughout– umber orbs shining out from beneath her fiery hair– but emotionless and unblinking. Her lips, he noticed, were covered in what appeared to be dried blood; her arms in very fine, attenuated scars. 

She smiled at him. He shivered.

She cackled. It was a rough, animalistic sound– not fit for her small, delicate frame. 

 

“Miss me?” she rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. She was still laughing– it was a forced, terrified sound; one that made him want to cower in fear, to run from the room as fast as his legs could take him– but the tightening grip of the guard’s hands on his arms reminded him that he couldn’t– he was completely at their mercy, with nowhere to run or hide.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by another one of her piercing screams. She lunged for him– teeth bared and snarling– but was held in place by the two guards standing at her back.

The sound of her shrill, piercing scream filled the room again. It reverberated off of the shining, gilded walls, and made her sound all the more terrifying. “You.” she seethed, as angry tears threatened to fall from her eyes. “You bastard; you son of a bitch-! D-do you know what they’ve done to me– to our child‽”

He was too shocked for words; he’d never heard her speak of him in such a manner before. She was a kind, gentle, caring woman, a wonderful wife; he knew she would be a wonderful mother– what had they done to her?

 

He watched as the guards forced a knife into her hands, and shoved her towards him.

She was crying now; desperately trying to pull away from the guards, and that’s when he noticed it– the absence of extra swathes of fabric around her midsection, the tightly fitting dress– he refused to accept it. It could not, would not happen again.

He was forced to kneel, and trembled as the guards roughly held his head in place.

She had finally made her way up to him– she had fought the guards as much as she could, but they were three times her size– she didn’t have a chance. She shakily raised the knife to his eyes, and sobbed.

She spoke quietly– whispered his name like a prayer; like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Serrure.”

The darkness returned.


	2. Noir

_“You aren’t of my blood, Serrure; you’re not royalty!” the old king replied, weary from squabbling with his only son. He was slowly massaging his temples, already exhausted from the fresh argument about to ensue. They had been on this topic for hours, but he’d come no closer to explaining to Serrure his true heritage than he had three hours ago. He feared it would be another useless attempt._

_“I’m– what?” Serrure choked out, finally beginning to understand his father’s words._

_“You are not of my blood. I visited Scandinavia one night long ago, and discovered your poor excuse for a mother cradling you in her arms outside a pub. It was freezing cold; she had only a flimsy shawl for warmth– and was using it to warm herself, not you. She was drunk, and appeared to care less for you than your father, who was nowhere in sight– probably inside that shabby excuse for a tavern, drinking himself into a stupor, worse than your mother appeared to have done earlier. I decided it was my right to take you from her, to try to give you a better home, a better life– to give you a chance at having things you would never have if I’d left you out in the cold with her. I thought if I brought you here, and raised you as my son, that I could... someday use you as a diplomat of sorts, between our country and yours. That your presence here could one day potentially keep us from war with the Scandinavians.” The king leaned back in his throne, and closed his eyes. He did not want to see his son’s reaction, for fear it would be for the worse, and not the better._

_He was right._

_Serrure screamed in a fit of rage, unable to contain his anger. How could his father– someone so seemingly close to him, someone he’d spent his entire life admiring– have been lying to him? He knew why; he’d heard Orrin’s explanation, had hung onto every word as the king had explained– but why? Why him, of all people? Of all the mistreated, underfed, uncared for infants in Scandinavia, why pick one you saw outside of a pub, on a nameless street, in the middle of a nameless town?_

_He was livid._

_“You– you bastard! You filthy, heartless liar! How DARE you bring me here, raise me in front of riches, adorn me in gold, name me a prince– knowing full well, knowing the ENTIRE time that I COULD NEVER HAVE IT-! You claim pity; pity for my drunken parents, pity for ME, of all things– and yet you blow that little white lie to hell and back when you say you’ve only kept me as a peacemaker!” he screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks._

_The king sighed, exhausted from the heated exchange. He had tired of Serrure’s presence, and proceeded to wave him away._

_“Leave my presence. I no longer wish to look upon one so ungrateful and uncaring as you. Go, pack your things; we must attend a council session in your home country on the ‘morrow. We leave this evening.”_

_Serrure stormed out of the throne room, completely enraged. He could feel the white-hot anger seething beneath his skin, threatening to boil over– he wanted to lash out. He wanted to hit something, someone, anyone– but what was the point in anything when you were only a useless pawn, stored away behind the chessboard until you were needed?_

* * *

 

    Months later, he was still stumbling around– tripping over rugs, running into the corners of tables, knocking over chairs– in hindsight, he thought blindness would suit him better than this.

 

    Serrure knew why she did it, why she blinded him. He knew she didn’t have a choice. He knew Orrin was cruel, but he’d never imagined him to be that soulless. He laughed to himself as he remembered past times when he had been younger, and Orrin had actually been a father to him. Had actually cared for him and treated him as a son, not as a prisoner.

 

    That was long ago.

 

    He trailed his fingers along the wall to find the door to his wife’s room, and opened it. He could hear her singing quietly to herself, could hear the sweet, melodic tones fill the room– he would have smiled, had these been different times.

 

    He felt his way along the room– he knew its layout so well by now, he barely had to try– and made his way up to her.

 

    “Serrure!” she exclaimed, happy to see him. “How– ...what’s that–?” she asked quietly. He could hear the panic in her voice, could feel her shivering with fear– and laughed. It was the laugh of a maniac, of a man desperate for retaliation. The sound horrified her. She tried to scream, but he cut her off– had his hand over her mouth; refused to let her talk.

 

    “Just returning the favor, Arwynn,” he whispered.  
  
    She could do nothing as her world faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for this one! Please, tell me what you thought of it! This is really my first time posting anything I've written somewhere like this; I'd greatly appreciate the feedback. :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is Loki/Sigyn, but it's written for one of my college classes so I had to switch things up a bit. I hope you like it!


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